


The Request

by LittleMissPascal



Series: Death and an Angel [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Din as Death, F/M, Female Reader, Helmetless Din Djarin, Immortals, Pining, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, no beta we die like men, no y/n, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissPascal/pseuds/LittleMissPascal
Summary: The fact of the matter is this: Death is an asshole. A charming, unfairly attractive asshole who pushes every one of your buttons and makes you feel like you’re two seconds away from catching fire whenever he looks at you.And yet, despite all that, you can’t commit yourself to requesting a transfer.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: Death and an Angel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052570
Comments: 1
Kudos: 113





	The Request

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on Tumblr. Come see my obsession with Pedro Pascal.

You find Death at the train station’s entrance wearing a gray wool overcoat. He’s dressed as a civilian, but he exudes an air of power that has the few people out this late giving him a wide berth. Any onlooker would think he appears patient, expression neutral as he waits beneath the station’s lone working lamppost. You know him better than them though, catching the way he fiddles with his leather gloves, a bad and unmistakable omen.

He’s restless tonight.

Adjusting your coat tighter around your body, you begin your approach, mentally bracing yourself for the upcoming conversation. _This is the part of the job I hate the most, how unpredictable he can be,_ you think to yourself right as brown eyes lock onto you with the same intensity as an arrow to the chest. Swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat, you steadily meet his gaze and pause at the edge of the circle of light, ready to disappear into the shadows if a hasty retreat is necessary. You know he’s aware of your nervousness by the way his mouth curls up in the faintest bit of a smirk, betraying his internal amusement.

Irritation has you huffing out a sigh, cheeks warm against the winter chill. He’s insufferable. So smug and self-assured; a complete contrast to your…well, everything. Your bosses said you’d get used to his behavior, adapt to it the same as you would every other aspect of your job, but it’s been nearly a whole year of meeting him every full moon and you’re fully convinced they had been lying to you.

The fact of the matter is this: Death is an asshole. A charming, unfairly attractive asshole who pushes every one of your buttons and makes you feel like you’re two seconds away from catching fire whenever he looks at you.

And yet, despite all that, you can’t commit yourself to requesting a transfer.

“There’s my favorite angel,” he greets, voice a unique mixture of smoke and honey. A siren call meant to seduce and lull unsuspecting victims into a false sense of peace.

You stubbornly ignore the subsequent bloom of warmth unfurling deep inside your chest. It’s not a pet name, no matter how it sounds to any eavesdropper passing by or how much that tiny voice at the back of your mind wishes it were. He thinks he’s being cleverly funny, outing your designation as a Cupid without any mortal being the wiser. His sense of humor is twisted to say the least.

“What do you want,” you reply flatly, not bothering with pleasantries as you adjust the beanie on top of your head, making sure it covers your ears. Your Cupid status protects you from illnesses, but it does little against the chilly air.

“To see you, of course,” he says, unaffected by your gruffness. If anything, he looks even more amused.

You pointedly look up to the night sky, noting the half sliver of moon hovering over your heads, before turning back to him with narrowed eyes. “If that’s all you wanted then you could have waited another week. I’m busy, Death, you can’t just—”

“Din,” he cuts you off, so soft you nearly miss it.

You blink. “What?”

“You told me last time we met I needed a name, something you could call me when we’re in front of the humans. I thought I’d give it a try.”

You remember that conversation. Of course you do, because he’d been quick to suggest you calling him ‘darling’ which nearly had you walking face first into a wall. You, red-faced and heart threatening to explode from your chest, had sputtered some excuse about workplace professionalism while he’d simply smiled back at you, that damn dimple of his on full display on his scruffy face.

“So you picked…Din,” you finally say, your traitorous heartbeat spiking loud enough you worry he can hear it.

It’s just a name. Three letters and not all that memorable considering how many thousands of names you deal with on a monthly basis.

But the fact that he invented it for you, meant to be spoken by your lips alone, fills you with a rush of giddiness. You bite down harshly on your bottom lip to contain your smile, not wanting to make an utter fool of yourself.

You clear your throat. “Ok, _Din_ , tell me why I’m here. The truth this time, please.”

“It is the truth. I summoned you because I needed to speak with you. You’re the only one I trust with this matter,” Din says, and his blunt sincerity steals the breath from your lungs.

His gaze falls to his hands as he fiddles with his gloves, looking oddly hesitant all of the sudden. It’s unnerving, to say the least, seeing Death resemble a child awaiting judgement from his peers. You’ve seen him kill people and reap their souls without hesitation, but never have you seen him appear so…lost.

It’s only when his right glove comes off, revealing callused bronze skin, that you make sense of his behavior.

“That’s a soulmate marking,” you blurt out dumbly. The black lines forming a heart in the center of his palm are unmistakable.

The universe has declared Din ready to meet his one true match. Someone who will shake his hand and will make his whole world tilt on its axis and rain down stars. Someone who will love him unconditionally with every speck of their being.

Your fingers itch to reach out and touch the mark, but you fight the urge. Din has an aversion to physical contact. He does all he can to avoid anyone brushing their skin against him, innocently or not, by covering his body in layers. In his armor, there’s no chance of it, body covered head to toe behind impenetrable beskar steel, but when he comes to meet with you he dresses in long-sleeves and pants, desiring to blend in. Sometimes there’s a scarf around his neck, maybe a hat covering his fluffy brown curls, but one accessory that you can always count on to see is his favorite pair of leather gloves.

You guess that will have to change now that he has a soulmate to meet.

“In all my existence, this has never happened before,” he confesses, fingers curling into his palm self-consciously when you continue to stare.

Your eyes slowly drift up to lock with his, startled by the spark of determination you find burning within them.

“If anyone can find my soulmate,” Din says, voice unwavering and confident, “it’s you, angel.”


End file.
